


Ten Ways to Sabotage Your Marriage

by dvs



Category: Donald Strachey Mysteries (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-30
Updated: 2010-01-30
Packaged: 2017-10-06 20:41:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dvs/pseuds/dvs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A successful gay art dealer supposedly commits suicide. Donald tries to figure out why it might be murder, with Timmy at his side.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ten Ways to Sabotage Your Marriage

**Author's Note:**

> For the 2007 [nick_n_nora](http://community.livejournal.com/nick_n_nora/tag/%5Bc%5Ddecember) Christmas challenge and Pollit's prompt: _Romance, surprise, reunion. If it's set during the Christmas season, I would love to have an inclusion of "Silent Night" and some mention/parallel/whatever of the WWI Christmas truce._

**1\. Taking an interest in other guys at a party when you're with your husband. Especially dead guys.**

  


It was supposed to be an uneventful and mostly painless evening. Donald would agree to wear a penguin suit and turn up on Timmy's arm for a fund-raiser promoting awareness of issues that faced the LGBT community and in return Donald would be allowed a drive home full of scathing remarks about people jumping on rainbow coloured bandwagons and dancing like performing monkeys to gain a few points in a political stand off. Timmy would smile and sigh in that way where he loved and despaired over Donald's cynicism and then Donald might grin at Timmy in that way that always led to a truce on political issues and more importantly, led to an early night in a warm bed.

Only things went a bit more like this.

Timmy pulled Donald close on the dance floor, warm smile on his face, always with a warm smile on his face, one that said the two of them together could make every place home. Donald went with a relieved sigh, his body melting against Timmy and losing itself to in the sway of the slow dance.

“Mmmm,” Donald said with a smile against Timmy's shoulder, hearing Timmy chuckle.

“It is not that bad,” Timmy said.

“It's worse,” Donald complained, tightening his hold on Timmy's hand and closing his eyes, resting his forehead on Timmy's shoulder. “Seriously, if one more person mistakes me for a waiter and asks me to get them a drink, for once I won't be the one solving the crime.”

Donald felt Timmy's mouth press to the side of his head in a smile. “You're just a grinch.”

“I am,” Donald said, lifting his head with a sigh and smiling up at Timmy despite his foul mood. “But I'm pretty sure there's a Who making my heart grow three sizes bigger as we speak. Well, at least I think it's my heart.”

Timmy narrowed his eyes at Donald, pretending to be mortified by such suggestive talk. “We'll see if that's all talk when we get home.”

Donald laughed in surprise, ready to come back with something else when a scream alerted everyone in the ballroom. Timmy and Donald turned towards the sound at the same time and before Donald knew it, he was running in the direction of the scream, Timmy somewhere close behind.

They ran down a softly lit corridor of the stately home, finally coming out into a circular vestibule, large and dramatic with a huge staircase that snaked up the wall and up to the floors above. In the middle of the mosaic tiled floor lay a man, face down and unmoving. A few steps from him stood a trembling woman, holding her elegantly gloved hands to her mouth as she stared wide-eyed at the body.

Donald looked at the man on the floor and the distraught woman who stood fixed to the spot. She moved only to look up at the stairs and then back at the fallen man. Donald carefully knelt down by the man and pressed two fingers to his neck, finding no pulse. He looked up at Timmy and said, “Someone better call the police.”

  


**2\. Thinking of someone else when you're sleeping with him. Especially dead people.**

  


The dead guy's name was Francis Hanover and according to Timmy he was a big shot art gallery owner as well as worth a fairly big fortune. His sister Marie, also his business partner and the distraught woman at the scene had seen him fall four floors before he hit the marble floor.

According to Bub Bailey, Hanover hadn't drunk much during the evening, but then not all people could hold their liquor. Hanover was a man with a successful business and had enough money that he could have retired at the ripe old age of forty if he wanted to. He was out and proud, so what kind of secrets would have compelled him to jump and why in that place? It made no sense.

“Donald,” Timmy said, weary.

Donald frowned. “What?”

“Go to sleep,” Timmy demanded.

Donald closed his eyes and pressed his face up against Timmy's back, trying to leech off as much of the other's man's body heat as possible. He was finally beginning to warm up, his feet no longer feeling like blocks of ice and his hands feeling less like frozen claws.

“Let's go to Hawaii,” Donald mumbled. “Let's go and not come back.”

“It's four in the morning, Donald,” Timmy almost groaned into his pillow. “You need to stop thinking so loudly.”

Donald felt a shiver run through him and this was just at the mere thought of the snow outside the window, falling all around them, killing the car, blocking the drive and doing other evil snow things.

Timmy turned over and Donald let him, both of them resettling with their arms around each other, Timmy's hand climbing up Donald's t-shirt and stroking up and down his back, warm and comforting enough that Donald could almost allow his brain to shut down.

“Why would he jump?” Donald murmured. “I mean, if he wasn't drunk.”

Timmy sighed, “Donald.”

Donald wondered what Timmy was thinking, if he wanted to tell Donald that not every gay man who killed himself was Kyle. Donald sleepily pressed his mouth to Timmy's shoulder, falling deeper into warmth and towards sleep.

“If he was that drunk,” Donald whispered into the dark. “How the hell did he even make it up four flights of stairs?”

Timmy was still and Donald figured he'd finally just learned to ignore Donald's loudly ticking brain and fallen asleep. Only suddenly he was moving and the light was coming on. Donald frowned and blinked up at Timmy who was staring back, looking absurdly kissable.

Timmy was sitting up in bed, staring around the room and then back at Donald who was too tired to sit up and have this conversation. “You think he was murdered?”

Donald nodded slowly. Timmy's brows knit closer together. “But Marie Hanover said she saw him fall.”

Donald nodded again. “Yeah. She did, didn't she? Why would she be lying?”

Timmy fell back with a sigh, like a man who knew there was going to be little sleep until this question was answered.

  


**3\. Being insensitive to people while visiting their home in the company of your husband. Especially by bringing up subjects like murder.**

  


Marie Hanover had a well kept house that smelled like money and wood polish. Donald figured the place probably got cleaned before dust even had a chance to settle. The only thing that was swept under the rugs here was the clean floor and perhaps a secret or two that could solve the mystery behind Francis Hanover's death.

“I really don't think she's going to believe we're here to see how she is,” Timmy said quietly as Donald inspected an ornament.

“Not if you keep talking about it, Timothy,” Donald said.

“Why am I here again?” Timmy asked.

“You look more sincere. It cuts down on my chances of being punched in the face,” Donald said with a smile.

Timmy rolled his eyes and then frowned in annoyance. “You said we were going out.”

“This is out, Timothy,” Donald said, feeling a little like a heel. “Just not _out_ out. Besides, if I have to freeze my ass off, so do you.”

“I don't see how,” Timmy said evenly.

“I said we should go to Hawaii, you said we should stay here. That's how,” Donald said.

“Gentlemen,” someone said before Timmy could ask for a divorce. Timmy and Donald turned to see a man eyeing them with interest. He was taller than Timmy, early forties, of an athletic build and dressed casually, leaning heavily on one crutch. From the numerous photographs around the room, Donald knew this was Marie Hanover's husband, one Robert Fry.

“Mr. Fry,” Donald said, offering his hand as he closed the gap between himself and the other man. “Donald Strachey. My partner Timmy Callahan.”

The man nodded with a smile, shaking their hands. When he stepped away, he wobbled and the crutch fell to the ground hard. Donald picked it up and handed it to Robert. Robert smiled gratefully. “Thank you, it's a terrible nuisance.”

Donald nodded to the leg. “Serious?”

Robert shook his head. “No no. Old skiing injury. Aggravated it the other morning. All I did was turn in the wrong way and there it went. Wretched thing meant I missed out on that fund-raiser. Can't say I'm completely sorry. Not sure I wanted to see Francis like that.” Robert gave a tight smile and took a breath. “Anyway, I gather you're here to see Marie.”

Timmy offered a polite smile. “We just wanted to know how she was. We were both there that night. It's a terrible tragedy.”

Robert nodded and sighed. “Yes. We're all quite shaken. Marie's... well, she was very close to Francis.”

Donald gave a nod. “Any idea of what actually happened?”

Timmy gave Donald a discreet look that indicated Donald had no tact whatsoever. He turned back to Robert and said, “It all just seemed very surreal at the time.”

Robert was nodding. “Quite. It seems Francis might have had a little too much to drink that night. Lost his footing. He never could handle his drink.”

Donald was about to ask how a man lost his footing over a banister, but Timmy cut in, like he knew what Donald was about to say. “It's a terrible state of affairs.”

“I appreciate your sympathy,” Marie Hanover said, appearing through a door at the back of the room as Donald and Timmy turned towards her. “Mr. Callahan. Mr. Strachey. Or is that Detective Strachey?”

“Detective?” Robert asked.

“Donald's fine,” Donald said with a smile. “How are you, Ms. Hanover?”

Marie looked pale, her demeanour icy. “Have you ever lost anyone, Mr. Strachey? I'm sure you wouldn't be asking that question if you had.”

Donald nodded slowly. “No. I guess I wouldn't.”

Marie stepped closer and spoke. “I appreciate your professional interest in my brother's death, Mr. Strachey, but I haven't hired your services and I don't intend to hire them so I'll ask you to stop your little investigation. I'm sure the police are more than capable of taking witness statements from that night and I'd rather you stopped calling around town to enquire about my brother's life. Thank you for coming here and offering your condolences. You can leave now.”

Donald gave a slow nod as Marie turned to leave. Despite her agitation at his presence, he couldn't help but call out after her. “Ms. Hanover? I do know how it feels and I _am_ sorry for your loss.”

She gave him a short look, eyes heavy with grief. Then she gave a small nod and walked away, leaving Donald feeling like a bit of a heel.

  


**4\. Being a cheap date. Especially since there is rarely any steak on a stakeout.**

  


Donald was aware that next to him Timmy was fidgeting and mulling something over. Since he also knew that Timmy would be airing his curiosity as soon as he was ready, Donald didn't concern himself too much and continued to watch the large window of the very modern looking Hanover Gallery. Marie Hanover was inside, talking to a man in a dark suit, his face hidden by a stripe of frosted glass. Marie on the other hand could be seen and she looked tired, weary.

“Donald, there's no heat,” Timmy said, finally figuring it out.

Donald nodded and continued to watch the gallery. “Oh yeah, it stopped working a week ago.”

Next to him, Timmy was silent in that way which suggested he was either being judgemental about the car or about Donald's sanity. Donald took a chance and turned to look at Timmy staring right back him.

“What?” Donald said. “So, there's no heating. It still drives.”

“Barely.”

Donald snorted. “So it has a few problems. It's mostly okay.”

“Donald, it's a car shaped mess. I can prove it. Switch the engine off.”

Donald made a face. “Come on, you know I'll never get it started again.”

Timmy fluttered his eyelashes and smiled. “My point exactly.”

“Okay, fine, we'll start looking for a new one in the new year,” Donald said, hoping Timmy might forget by the new year. Again. “In the meantime, you can have one of these.”

Donald leaned over and bumped a quick kiss on Timmy's pouting mouth. Timmy remained annoyed for another half second after which he dropped the pretence and smiled. “I really hope this isn't how you spend your stakeouts with Kenny.”

Donald smiled. “Ha, very funny, Timothy.”

Timmy sighed and peered past Donald. “So, have we found anything yet?”

“I don't know,” Donald mused. “She's been talking to Mr. GQ a while now.”

“Maybe he's a buyer,” Timmy said.

“Yeah, maybe. Only, he's been standing in the same spot since he walked in and something he said has made Ms. Hanover pretty upset.”

“You don't really think she could have killed her own brother, do you?” Timmy asked in that quiet way that meant he simply didn't want to believe it. “I mean, he was her _brother_.”

“I don't know,” Donald said, not wanting to believe it either.

The mystery man walked out of the gallery and Donald snapped a picture, Marie Hanover looking distraught in the background.

  


**5\. Checking out other guys when you're spending the day together. Especially guys who might be murderers.**

  


“We wouldn't have this problem if we were in Hawaii, you know,” Donald said, just about ready to run from the noisy, crowded and sparkly department store. Everyone around them seemed caught up in the frenzy of Christmas. One day, he thought, all of this just for one day. It seemed insane.

Timmy was talking about Christmas dinner again, a grand affair all for the benefit of their parents. All of them in the same room for the first time without a buffer zone comprised of friends and well-wishers. Donald couldn't understand why Timmy was working so hard on having a miserable Christmas.

Donald blew out a breath, deciding it was time he dragged Timmy towards the nearest tower of coffee beans when someone caught his eye. It was the mystery man from Francis and Marie's gallery. A photograph of him was sitting in Donald's desk drawer, forgotten in the Christmas rush and under the burden of cases he was being paid to solve.

“Donald,” Timmy was calling before his hand shook Donald's arm and he asked with concern, “Honey? You okay?”

“It's the guy from the gallery,” Donald said, watching the man. He seemed aloof amongst the crowd. There was a woman with him and every now and then she'd touch his arm, get his attention and maybe a word or two with a nod.

“Donald,” Timmy sounded weary. “I thought Detective Bailey said it was time to drop this.”

No. What Bailey had said was that Marie Hanover knew Donald Strachey was asking people questions and though her brother was gay, it wasn't an invitation for Donald to go nosing around where he had no business.

Donald turned to look at Timmy. “What do you think? Think I should drop it?”

There was a pained look on Timmy's face. A seemingly happy man had suddenly died and the only witness to his death was claiming to see something that looked like a drunken accident. Donald knew Timmy would want him to find the truth. Timmy sighed. “What are you going to do?”

Donald smiled his best smile. One that made Timmy step back with complete and utter distrust.

  


**6\. Using him to spare yourself embarrassment in a tricky situation. Especially when you're sick of hearing 'the gay detective!'. **

  


Donald floated close by but out of sight as Timmy made his way to the mystery man. It would have been a more convincing attempt at aloofness if Timmy didn't keep looking in Donald's direction with a look that was pleading to get him out of this.

“Um, hello,” Timmy said, approaching the man, smiling. Timmy gave a flustered shake of the head as the man gave him a look of confusion. “I'm sorry, this probably seems very strange, but I saw you and couldn't for the life of me remember where we've met.”

“We haven't,” the man said bluntly, the woman at his side now looking interested.

Timmy stiffened a little, but smiled anyway, at the woman too. “Well, in that case this is quite embarrassing.”

“Actually,” the woman spoke. “I think we have met. You're Senator Callahan's son, aren't you?”

Timmy looked as though someone had just thrown him a lifesaver. “Yes, that's right, Timothy Callahan.”

He held out his hand and the woman shook it. “Annie Donovan and this is David Crane,” she said as David shook Timmy's hand, still looking as though he'd rather be somewhere else.

“Actually, I was sure I'd bumped into David-” Timmy started.

“I know what you're doing,” David suddenly said. “You and the gay detective aren't exactly Albany's big secret, Mr. Callahan.”

Timmy, bless him, looked guilty straight away. The woman took a possessive hold of David's arm. The slight stroke of her hand gave away her concern and made Donald look a little closer, noting the pallor of David's face, the tiredness around his eyes and the way his mouth looked as though he didn't know how to smile.

“You tell Strachey,” David said quietly. “Francis would never kill himself. There was so much he wanted to do with his life. The idea that he got drunk and fell? It's ridiculous. No, someone killed him, I know.”

“David,” Annie said softly as David's eyes became glassy. “Don't.”

“But no one gives a damn,” David said tightly. “No one gives a damn because he didn't leave behind a beautiful wife and two kids. He was just some queer that got drunk and dropped dead.”

“That's not true,” Donald said, stepping out and standing next to Timmy. “I give a damn.”

  


**7\. Promising to be home in time for dinner and then staying at the office too long. Or at least until your husband turns up to take you home.**

  


Kenny had gone home early, stating that he needed time off to prepare for a date. Not many people needed a whole day to prepare, but Kenny was special like that. Donald had shook his head and told him to go, while he wandered over to Francis Hanover's impressive and expensive home. He let himself in with the keys Crane had given him while urging him to find the truth, whatever that truth was.

The house felt haunted and gloomy, misty in the dim afternoon light. His heart almost wasn't in it as he looked around, floating from room to room until he reached what appeared to be an office. There were pictures in here, of Marie with her husband, with Francis, with her children. A picture of David and Francis sat on the desk next to a computer. They looked happy, David behind Francis, his arms possessively wrapped around Francis' shoulders, both men smiling into the camera with mischief and mirth in their eyes.

Putting the picture away, Donald walked around the desk, scuffing the wood floor where something had fallen and left a mark. He switched on the computer and rifled through the drawers as it booted up. He found receipts, invoices, letters to do with the business and other affairs, but nothing that set alarm bells ringing. His computer tossed up old e-mails, some to friends, others to acquaintances, but none to family it seemed. His Internet history seemed to belong to a man that perhaps didn't spend time online for leisure, his bookmarks containing sites that seemed exclusive to his line of work. Except for the last few that caught Donald's eyes just as he was about to move on. It seemed Francis had an interest in genealogy sites. A further search through his computer threw up documents on the Hanovers and the Frys and other names Donald didn't recognise.

Francis had not only saved files on family history, but there were corresponding paper files and research books in the office too. Interesting it was, but still not the information Donald was looking for. Donald e-mailed himself the files on the computer, grabbed a few invoices and statements and continued his search through the house. He found nothing but emptiness and the smell of wood polish.

Donald decided on spending the rest of the day behind his desk, making calls, reminding people he didn't work for free, promising Bailey he wasn't nosing around where he wasn't supposed to, reading through all the files he'd e-mailed himself and generally finding out all he could about Francis Hanover and his sister Marie.

Francis Hanover had been dead three weeks now and in that time Donald found nothing to suggest that he and his sister had anything but an amicable relationship. Yet, imprinted in his mind was the image of David Crane's heartbreak clear on his face. The confrontation between him and Marie at the gallery. There was a missing piece. A bone of contention between the two. And as Christmas drew closer and Donald's business flourished, Francis Hanover's case seemed to fade more and more out of Donald's life.

Donald sat back in his chair and ended up staring at the length of his office as the sun went down outside and the room darkened bit by bit. His eyes lingered over the large picture of himself and Timmy for a long time. He couldn't imagine being without Timmy. No. He _could_ imagine it. He remembered what it was to lose Kyle and he knew that losing Timmy would be somehow a million times worse. Donald would be half the man he was. A ghost like David Crane.

The door to the office opened and Donald didn't even pretend to be surprised at the figure that came out of the shadows. The light was switched on, leaving Donald squinting and smiling at Timmy. Timmy was looking weary in that affectionate way of his as he walked to the desk. Donald could tell he wasn't going to complain or admonish.

He sat down on the edge of the desk, close enough for Donald to reach up and take Timmy's hand. He couldn't imagine this with Kyle. Everything about their relationship had to be hidden. The touches, the looks, the feelings, all of it. With Timmy, everything was on the outside, leaving a space inside Donald that allowed him to breathe and feel.

“He left almost everything to David Crane,” Donald said quietly, looking up at Timmy from where he sat almost sprawled in his seat. “And his share of the gallery to his sister.”

Timmy nodded. “Well, Crane's not exactly lacking in wealth, not enough to have a motive.”

“Same could be said for Marie Hanover,” Donald said. “Nice business. Family. Piles of money. What could she gain from killing her own brother? Besides, I'm having a problem seeing her dragging him up four flights of stairs just to push him off and then run back down to scream.”

“Donald,” Timmy said quietly, squeezing his hand. “What if he was just drunk? What if it _was_ an accident?”

Donald gave Timmy an honest look. “It'd be better than being murdered.”

“You seem sure,” Timmy said. Donald squeezed Timmy's hand and let go to pick up a print out, which he handed to Timmy. “What is it?”

“The last transactions Francis Hanover made from his business account. Ten thousand dollars to an auction house in New York.”

Timmy looked at the print out and frowned. “I don't understand. This is what the Hanovers do, isn't it? Buy and sell art.”

Donald nodded. “Sure. But you can't sell something that never reached you.”

Timmy gave Donald a look. “I don't follow.”

“Crane says the auction house delivered the item to Francis Hanover's house _and_ that he signed for it and received it. Marie Hanover says the item never made it to the gallery like everything paid out of the business account is supposed to. They both think the other is lying,” Donald said.

“How does a ten thousand dollar painting just go missing?” Timmy asked.

“It's not a painting,” Donald said. “Apparently Hanover paid ten thousand dollars to acquire a letter from a lot consisting of war memorabilia.”

“Doesn't sound like something that would end up in the Hanover gallery,” Timmy said. He scratched his head with a frown. “Francis Hanover didn't strike me as the kind of person interested in war memorabilia either.”

“Well, it looks like he was doing a little research on his family tree,” Donald said. “Maybe it had something to do with that.”

Donald shrugged, worn out and ready to call it quits. Timmy gave him a look and sighed. “Come here,” he said.

Donald got up to sit on the edge of the desk, right next to Timmy. It was dark outside the window in front of them, but they could see their reflections inside a flurry of new snow. Donald knew it was bitterly cold outside. He knew this office was draughty. However, sitting here next to Timmy, feeling his warmth all down the side of his body where they were touching, Donald couldn't even imagine what cold was like.

He wanted to say something about being lucky, about being in love, but some days it was harder to say these things out loud and other days it was unimaginably easy. Some days it was the same old battle, two versions of himself fighting each other to be on top and other days, he was just Donald Strachey. A guy with a husband, a house, a dog, a crappy car and a perky assistant.

“What?” Timmy asked after a while, taking a hold of Donald's hand, making it easier for him to be the guy with the husband, house, dog, car and assistant.

Timmy looked down at their intertwined hands and the ring on Timmy's finger. It made him want to tell Timmy he'd spend Christmas in the North Pole for him if he wanted. Instead he looked up at Timmy said. “Nothing. I love you. That's all.”

Timmy smiled and pulled Donald in for a warm and tight embrace. “I know. I love you, too.” Then, just to be on the safe side, Donald guessed, Timmy added, “Our parents are still coming over for Christmas, though.”

  


**8\. Taking him out as an excuse to finish up extra work from the office. Especially when there's no pay day for the work.**

  


It seemed maudlin that the stately mansion where Francis Hanover and fallen to his death just weeks ago was playing host to another event.

Timmy, ever the culturally inclined, had invitations to the event, an evening of classical music with a choir and carols, the whole place dripping with Christmas cheer. Donald slipped away after half an hour, finding his way around the large mansion until he came to _that_ spot.

It was a quiet spot, a circular space that bridged the gap between two corridors and led up to four floors. Standing here, Donald could hear _O Holy Night_ being sung by the choir, a quiet musical echo in the background. He stood there, hands in the pockets of his pants as he stared up at the spot from where Francis Hanover supposedly fell.

“Anything?” Timmy asked, quietly appearing at Donald's side.

Donald looked at Timmy with a frown. Then he took Timmy by his arms and walked him to the spot Marie Hanover had been standing in the night her brother died. Donald stood behind Timmy and asked, “What do you see from here?”

Timmy looked up and frowned. “What am I supposed to be seeing?”

“Marie Hanover said she saw her brother fall from the fourth floor, when actually, I think all she saw was him falling. There's no way she saw where he fell from, not standing in this spot.”

Timmy turned to look at Donald. “Detective Bailey has to know that.”

Donald smiled. “He does. It's why I'm down here and he's not.”

Timmy shook his head. “That's a fine line you both walk.”

“Come on,” Donald said, heading towards the stairs.

As healthy as they both were, four flights of stairs brought a flush to the skin and sweat to the brow. “You'd have to be in pretty good shape to get someone up here, throw them off and then run back down. Marie Hanover was distraught. She did _not_ look like she ran down four flights of stairs,” Donald said, catching his breath when they reached the top.

Timmy stopped and leaned against the banister, breathlessly wondering, “When did we get this old?”

Donald grinned and patted Timmy on the back before pointing down at the spot floors below them. “Look, according to the forensics report Hanover's wrist hit the banister on the way over.” Donald stood with his back flush against the banister. “How does a drunk guy just fall like this?”

Timmy nodded and stepped in front of Donald. “So, he was up here with someone?”

Donald nodded back and stepped forward. “And maybe he gets in the face of the other guy.”

“Only the other guy pushes him back,” Timmy said, placing his hands on Donald's chest and gently shoving. Donald stumbled a little, his arms coming out to get some balance. Both men looked at his hand hovering around the banister. Donald looked back at Timmy. “What do you do next?”

Timmy looked around. “I can't run down. Too risky.”

“So you run to the closest getaway,” Donald said.

Timmy and Donald turned towards the closest door. When they tried the knob, it turned easily, the door opening and revealing a dark, but immaculate bedroom. It looked less lived in and more like a display. Donald pointed towards the large French windows that opened onto a small balcony. “He runs to the window, out onto the balcony and he's got balls of steel because he just climbs down the side and disappears.” Timmy looked skeptical, but Donald went on. “They dusted the place for fingerprints. Nothing. Outside, by the time anyone even thought it could be murder, there's a fresh blanket of snow and he's gotten away with it. Just like that.”

Timmy shook his head. “The police have to have gone over this, Donald. Besides, doesn't it all seem a little easy?”

“Bailey's got no one pushing for an investigation,” Donald said, opening the windows to the balcony. “Hanover's sister's too busy thinking about dragging Crane into court over missing property.”

“That's crazy, Crane and Hanover's were together,” Timmy said. “Wait, Donald, what are you doing?”

Donald stopped half-way over the balcony. “I'm seeing how long it takes to climb down this wall.”

“No, you are not,” Timmy insisted.

“Honey, I'll be fine,” Donald promised. “Meet you on the ground floor.”

Donald went over as Timmy protested, cursed and perhaps even promised a trip to Hawaii. It wasn't such a hard climb using the decorative metal trellis that went almost all the way down. It was slippery and cold, but hard and unmoving under Donald's feet and hands. When it ran out, he was only a few feet from the ground, slipping on the last icy foothold and landing on a snow bank.

He was still kneeling there and staring at the snow when Timmy arrived and fell next to him with, “Oh my God, you scared me to death. Are you okay?”

Donald nodded mutely, feeling Timmy's hand on the back of his neck, warm and grounding. Then he turned to see a face full of concern and said, “This is how he did it. This is how the murderer killed Francis Hanover.”

  


**9\. Using your husband as the bridge builder too often. Especially when you happen to be like a bull on a china bridge. **

Timmy looked his respectable best as he stood in the Hanover gallery, admiring a piece of art on the wall. Marie came out looking unruffled, all in neat understated lines and elegant black. She approached Timmy with a stern look accompanied by a stiff professional smile. Both shook hands when she greeted him.

“Mr. Callahan, isn't it?” she asked.

Timmy nodded. “Yes, Timmy Callahan.”

She nodded. “I remember. Mr. Strachey isn't with you?”

“I thought it best to leave him in the car,“ Timmy said. “I'm just here to apologize. Donald's not very good at that kind of thing.”

Marie stared at him for a while, obviously taken aback. “I'm not sure I understand.”

“Ms. Hanover, the day your brother died, Donald and I were both there and we saw him, saw you and it did become somewhat of a personal thing for Donald to figure out what happened. He didn't realize that it might inadvertently make an unhappy situation even worse. He... both of us, we never meant to cause more hurt and we're truly sorry if we did. If Donald weren't so mortified about the whole thing he'd be apologizing in person,” Timmy said, all quiet sincerity.

Marie nodded. “I appreciate your being so candid.”

Timmy nodded back. “I just want you to know we won't be troubling you again.”

“What about David? I hear Mr. Strachey and David Crane have been seen together a number of times. What should I make of that?” Marie asked.

Timmy hesitated. “Mr. Crane wanted to hire Donald to conduct an investigation. I don't think Donald saw the appeal of rifling through your brother's things. If there was anything to find, he would have found it by now. As far as I know, Mr. Crane's found someone else.”

Marie gave a slow nod, watching Timmy closely. “I see.”

“Ms. Hanover, Donald assures me he's no longer interested in this case and I believe him,” Timmy said. “He wouldn't lie to me. I just thought you should know.”

Timmy turned around headed towards the door. Marie called after him. “Mr. Callahan.”

Timmy looked back at her. “Yes?”

“Thank you,” she said.

Timmy nodded and left, crossed the road, opened the car door and got inside, bringing with him a flurry of snow. Donald stared at him.

“What?” Timmy asked. “Did you get any of that?”

Donald nodded, feeling an odd amount of pride. “Yeah. Every word.”

“I've never worn a wire before. I think it was a little exciting.” Timmy said, looking flushed.

Donald couldn't resist and leaned forward to press a kiss on Timmy's mouth. “Thank you.”

Timmy smiled, rather pleased with himself. “You're welcome.”

  


**10\. Making him think you're going to leave him. With the help of bullets. **

  


First there was a quiet sound of the front door opening and then shutting. Then an almost indeterminate sound of footsteps, soft and uneven. A single light didn't go on and the intruder walked in near silence before opening the door to the office and slipping inside, almost unnoticeable, moving like a shadow.

Donald switched the light on. “Looking for something?”

Robert Fry turned around and stared at Donald. “What the hell is this?”

Donald shrugged. “You tell me. You're the one sneaking around your brother-in-law's house.”

Robert seemed to be mulling over the turn of events before just laughing. “What is this? Some kind of game?”

“No. Not to me,” Donald said plainly. “I just had a theory. Figured I should check it out.”

Robert snorted. “And what might that be?”

Donald stepped closer to the other man. “I figured if your wife thought Crane had a new guy waiting to tear this place apart, there was a small chance you might turn up to finish looking for something very important to you.”

Robert raised his eyebrows in interest. “Hmm. Interesting. What makes you think I was ever looking for something?”

Donald nodded to the ground where he had noticed a mark on the wooden floor the first time he had visited. “See that? I saw one just like it at your house, when you dropped your crutch.”

Robert laughed. “Oh dear.”

Donald smiled. “Of course, you were careful. Wearing gloves, like you are right now. Left no fingerprints. But you looked through his stuff, didn't find what you were looking for and left.” Robert looked as though he was going to scoff. Donald held up a finger. “But I did. I found it. I found out what you killed Francis Hanover for.”

Robert no longer looked so confident. He laughed, more nervous this time. “You're delusional. You think I killed Francis? Have you any idea how insane that sounds? I couldn't even walk on that day, you idiot.”

“What the hell is this?” Marie demanded, appearing in the doorway, looking furious, elegantly wrapped in a black coat. She looked at Strachey. “You?”

“Marie,” Robert said.

“I should have known this had something to do with you,” Marie said. She looked at Robert and explained. “Looks like following you was a good idea after all.”

“Tell her,” Donald said, ignoring the intrusion. “Tell her how you did it.”

“Did what?” Marie asked.

“He thinks I killed Francis,” Robert said icily.

Marie gave Donald a look that said he was crazy. “My husband could barely walk. You can ask the doctor who treated him.”

“When?” Donald asked. “When did he treat him? The morning? Or the evening?”

Marie looked confused. “What?”

“Let me guess. You wake up and your husband says he's aggravated an old injury. You've seen it happen before, you take his word for it and when he tells you it'll be fine, not to fuss over it, you don't. You go to the fund-raiser with your brother, your husband stays at home. Think back to the night. Think back to how he looked in the morning and how he was that evening. In more pain? Enough to call the doctor. Go to the hospital?” Donald asked.

“I was in the hospital when I got the call about Francis,” Robert said calmly. “You can check their records. I wouldn't have been anywhere nearby that night.”

“I think you need to get out,” Marie said quietly. “Before I call the police.”

“What if you did go to the fund-raiser?” Donald asked. “What if you went there, lured Francis into an argument, all the way up four flights of stairs, really got into his face and then pushed him? What if you then ran through a bedroom, out of the window and used the trellis to climb down? Only you slip and you fall on your knee and there it is, an injury for real. You get in the car and you drive straight to the hospital. What do you think about that?”

“Farfetched,” Robert said, but the pallor of skin said something else.

“Why?” Marie asked. “Why would he do it?”

Donald reached into his pocket and pulled out an envelope. “The ten thousand dollar missing piece of the jigsaw puzzle.”

Marie frowned. “What is that?”

“This is what your brother bought with the ten thousand dollars from your business account. What you accused David Crane of stealing. It's a letter. It was never missing. Your brother hid it in a photo frame. The one on his desk,” Donald said, nodding to the picture of David and Francis. “The letter your husband killed your brother for.”

Marie was silent and Robert seemed to have lost his tongue too. Donald held out the letter to Marie, watching her looking at it as though it might explode, before taking it, clutching it and taking out a gun that she pointed at Donald, the safety clicking off.

“An intruder, we'll say,” Marie murmured. “We came here to take care of a few things and there was someone in the house.”

“Make it look like an accident,” Donald said quietly. “You know what I couldn't figure out, what made the least sense? If your husband was the killer, how did he get to the hospital so fast? Impossibly fast. When you saw Francis fall, your husband would have been close by. Someone would have seen him running from the scene and they didn't.”

Marie looked as though she was trembling, her eyes covered in a glassy sheen. “You're the detective. Figure it out.”

Donald mustered up enough breath and said, “You saw him fall. You gave your husband enough time to escape. _Then_ you screamed.” Marie's grip tightened on the gun. “All for what? That letter? He was your brother.”

“He threw his life away,” Marie said, voice wavering. “My parents left him a fortune, hoping he'd carry on the Hanover name, have children one day. But no, not Francis. It wasn't enough that he had to be oh so different, so terribly terribly complex, no, he had go around proving that everyone else in the world was like him. _Wrong_.”

“What did you do?” Donald asked. “Watched your husband push him from the fourth floor? Watch him die?”

Marie let out a pained sob, but recovered with an angry snarl and held the gun tighter.

“He loved you,” Donald said.

“Shut up,” Marie said. “Just shut up.”

“You think I'd give you the real letter?” Donald asked. “You think I'd just hand it over?”

“You're trying to buy time,” Marie said. “It's pointless. I let my own brother die. You think I give a damn about killing you? I'll be doing the world a favor.”

“Marie, let me see the letter,” Robert said, worriedly, pulling it from her hand and opening it. He found nothing of course. “Where is it?” he demanded.

Donald said nothing, staring Marie in the eyes. Marie's arm seemed to stretch, become rigid and prepare to fire, but Robert stopped her with, “Marie, we can't kill him, we need that letter.”

Marie shook her head with a smile. “It's too late. Isn't it?”

Donald gave a nod. “Yes.”

“Then I guess it doesn't matter if we killed one or if we killed two,” she said and Donald expected a bullet between the eyes, only something that looked like a vase came flying into the room, hitting Marie on the back of the head and sending her crashing to the floor as Timmy yelled, “Donald.”

Robert lunged for the gun at the same time as Donald, but it slipped from both of them as Donald managed a punch in Robert's direction. They struggled for a moment, twisting in each other's grasp, stopping at the sound of gunshots. Donald punched Robert's jaw hard, sending him sprawling and moving around the desk in time to see Marie fall to the ground, her gun falling away. Bailey stood in the doorway, his weapon in hand.

“Timmy!” Donald yelled, scrabbling across the floor to find Timmy lying on his side. He pulled Timmy into his lap to see a grimacing face and Timmy's bloody hand wrapped around his own arm, police officers filling the room now.

“I've been shot,” Timmy said, looking quite offended and a little confused. Donald tried to be as gentle as possible, finding the wound's location under the coat, sweater and shirt.

“It just skimmed you, thank God. What were you doing?” Donald said, his voice hoarse all of a sudden. “You almost got yourself killed.”

“I was causing a diversion so the bitch with the gun wouldn't shoot my boyfriend, Donald,” Timmy said with a pained grimace, just as Bailey knelt down.

“Sorry, Strachey, we couldn't do anything while she had a clear shot. We had to let you keep talking so we could set up a sniper.”

“Yeah, good job on that,” Donald snapped. He kissed Timmy's forehead. “Come on. Let's get the fuck out of here. I'm taking you to the hospital.”

“Hey, we'll get someone to look at that, drive you to the hospital,” Bailey said as Donald slowly helped Timmy to his feet.

“No,” Donald said. “You do your job. I need to take care of Tim.”

**If you still fail to sabotage your marriage, clearly you're onto a good thing. **

The funny thing was that things came to a head on Christmas Eve, meaning Donald and Timmy's parents would still be coming to dinner and the real disaster of the season hadn't been avoided at all. If that wasn't bad enough, the snow just seemed to get heavier and heavier. Still, Donald stood in the backyard, watching it fall and listening to the faint strains of _Silent Night_ drifting over him from someone's house.

“Donald, what are you doing? It's freezing out here,” Timmy said, appearing at his side as nature intended.

Donald turned to Timmy as he pulled an envelope from his pocket and held it up. Timmy looked at it and said, “The letter.”

Donald nodded. “Crane's coming by to pick it up later.”

Timmy shook his head. “And? Did you read what it said?”

Donald gave a slow nod and quietly answered, “Yeah.”

“Well? What's the big secret?” Timmy asked, eyes alight with curiosity, bullet wound forgotten.

“It's an old letter from a British soldier,” Donald said. “From 1914, 24th December to be exact.”

Timmy was silent for a moment. Then he said, “Okay.”

Donald shook his head, feeling oddly breathless. “This soldier, his name was John Smith. I saw the name before, in a file Francis was keeping, his research on the Hanovers and the Frys. John Smith was Fry's grandfather. He wrote this letter during the 1914 Christmas Truce.”

Donald handed the envelope to Timmy who opened it slowly, carefully, and extracted the letter, which seemed colored, but not as delicate as one might have expected. Like it and everything about it had stood the test of time. Timmy opened the small letter up and read.

“I found him today, my friend who once was so bright, so gay. His limbs, those fingers, blown astray. No longer shall they play, so tender, so risqué. No more beating of my heart, for it lies broke and torn apart, trampled in a muddy grave, fallen like so many brave. In its place I keep a flame alive, in its place, shall now your name reside.” Timmy finished reading and returned the letter to its envelope. Donald took it back and put in his pocket so he wouldn't have to look at it anymore.

“I guess Marie and Robert didn't want another queer in the family,” Donald said. “Maybe they thought he'd publicize the letter, ruin their precious family names, something, anything. Maybe they just needed an excuse to hate Francis a little more. Maybe, John Smith was just a really bad poet writing about a good friend and Marie and Robert were so blinded by their hate they couldn't even see it because it's all about _fucking_, Timothy. All about who fucks who and how they fuck each other.”

“Donald—“ Timmy started gently.

Donald shook his head, holding up a hand, feeling tremors around his mouth, stinging in his eyes. “It's just... God.” He took a deep breath that made his chest shudder. “It's just stupid,” he said quietly, giving in for the night, maybe the week. Forever.

“It survived ninety-four years, Donald, this sentiment. John Smith loved someone, doesn't matter how, under what label, it was just love. Maybe Francis wanted to show his family that love endures. Whomever it might be between,” Timmy said quietly.

“Only, their hearts didn't grow three times as big like he wanted?” Donald asked with a bitter smile.

Timmy smiled too. “Their loss. But, there's always going to be someone who gets it, Donald.” Timmy stepped closer, drawing Donald into a tight embrace where he knew how to breathe again, a familiar warm space. “Let's go inside. I think we've been out in the cold enough.”

Donald angled up his head and received a kiss, snowflakes falling between their faces and melting from the warmth. Donald smiled and pointed his chin in the direction of the house. “Come on. It's time I administered some TLC, Sir Timothy.”

Timmy took Donald's hand with a smile and they both headed inside. “I look forward it. Oh, and by the way? I had an idea for next Christmas.”

Donald nodded. “Okay, hit me.”

Timmy seemed to consider the idea for a long time before asking, “How does Hawaii sound?”

Donald grinned and gave Timmy a well-earned kiss. Later he would tell him it didn't matter where they went, as long as they went together.

**\- the end -**


End file.
